Deeper
by OoZolaoO
Summary: There's a darkness within her that she still can't shake. She knows it's only been four days – six since Tara – but it's disconcerting that it's managed to hang on this long. The blood and wounds are easy to heal. Her soul is proving less so. Oneshot post s6, rated M for content and unhealthy coping.


**WARNING: contains self-harm, mentions of self-harm.** Please do the smart thing and **exit out** if this is something you find triggering.

Set between seasons 6 and 7, spoilers for "Seeing Red" and on.

Note: an athame is a knife generally used in Wiccan rituals :]

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_Roads in front of me _  
_Taking me astray _  
_Are you leaving me, _  
_or are you leading the way? _  
_Can you hear what I'm saying?_

"I Need to Know" - Kris Allen

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The sky is a soft, familiar gray as Willow perches on the lower limbs of her new favorite tree, one bare foot dangling and one tucked beneath her. The bark feels like brick against her back – rough, snagging pieces of her hair whenever she moves – but it's nice to feel steady for once. Her fingers drop to her lap, and she forces them to still. Breathe in, breathe out. A breeze rustles by, tickling her cheeks, and she closes her eyes and lets it catch her breath.

She's been here four days now. Four full days since she was plucked from Sunnydale and carted off to England, where at least if she went all evil again there'd be fewer people to flay.

The image of Warren is one she carries with her, in a tight space somewhere between her heart and breastbone. It pushes against her organs on days like today, spluttering her heartbeat and sending daggers into her lungs when she tries to leave behind the pain and let the wind take her away.

She doesn't realize she's chanting to herself until the breeze dies and her voice rises above it. "_Divine Goddess, Goddess Divine_," she breathes, "_Show us the way. Give us a sign_." It's a half-familiar stanza, one that she and Tara used to whisper together before their workings. She can still hear Tara's voice when she thinks about it, twining between her consonants and filling her vowels.

The magic fades, and Willow blinks open her eyes. There are tears on her lashes now, but they've become so common in these last few days she hardly notices them. There are little patches of raw skin collecting in the hollows beneath her eyes where the tears trace her freckles over and over again, unrelenting and salty-sweet.

It's quiet now, on the moor. The breeze has stilled, and Willow has to strain to hear the chortling of the brook she knows is about a mile to the east. It's with a kind of calm confidence that she reaches into her satchel and finds the handle of her athame, a burnished silver that she's not quite used to yet.

Her first athame is back in Sunnydale, tucked away somewhere in her and Tara's room, and she's missing it. She and Tara had carved symbols into the wooden handle one night in Tara's room, Willow giggling breathlessly as Tara's hand twitched and her symbol for personal growth turned into meaningless scrawl. Tara was appalled; her blue eyes were big and beginning to well with tears before Willow stopped her.

"_Who needs personal growth, anyway?" _Willow had teased, covering Tara's hand with her own and lacing their fingers. "_I don't mind being short_."

Tara's laugh still haunts her, soft and sweet like the brook just out of hearing, and Willow grasps the strange athame with renewed strength. The silver gleams in the late-afternoon sunlight like a promise, and Willow takes a moment to appreciate its beauty before pressing it to her skin.

The first touch is always hesitant, just rough enough to pierce the skin and enflame the nerve endings but not deep enough for blood. Willow handles the athame with the deftness of a pen and twirls it around before trying again. Her forearm is turning pink, and a line of blood follows the path of the blade like the thin, thin trail of a crayon.

She was surprised the coven let her have a blade to begin with - or that _Giles_ had, rather. Giles wouldn't suspect this, though. It isn't Willow-esque. Willow would cry, or curl up in the warm grass and scream at the heavens until she fell asleep beneath the pale English sun. And Goddess knows she's been doing plenty of that lately. She's also been spending more and more time alone, pouring herself into nature in an attempt to flush out the darkness that has taken root in her heart and veins. And nature does help. The earth helps, the wind helps, and the coven helps. She feels more contained when she's in a circle with them, or when they're running magic over her like water, just a little bit too cold but refreshing all the same.

But there's also a darkness within her that she still can't shake. She knows it's only been four days – six since Tara – but it's disconcerting that it's managed to hang on this long. The blade is the only thing that really helps; for a brief and beautiful moment, Willow is at peace within herself once more.

The blood and the wounds are easy to heal, but her soul is proving less so.

She waits until the blood has beaded around the fresh cuts and begins to trickle down her arm before banishing it and whispering the required words. And with the blood goes her space of fleeting calm.

Giles finds her here, as he does every evening when the sun begins to sink behind the hills. He's quiet and sturdy as he helps her out of her tree, and they walk back to the house, bare feet skimming over the shadowed grass. She knows he knows tonight; she can see it in his eyes and feel it in the way his hand curls protectively around her lower back. But she knows he won't say anything.

Before they step through the arch into the grounds of the coven, Willow stops and looks back over her shoulder. The breeze catches her hair once more, tossing it into her face and making her eyes water in a way that's only half wind.

"Are you all right?" Giles asks after a moment. His hand flutters to her shoulder, half sure.

"The sunset reminds me of her," Willow says. Giles' hand tightens on her shoulder, and she thinks she catches a tear on his cheek before he steers her inside.

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**a/n: **Thanks for reading! I plan to make my next Tillow fic a lot happier, don't worry :/ Willow's chant is from _Living Wicca_ by Scott Cunningham.


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